


Justice

by Whump-with-wren (Spannah339)



Series: Bad Things Happen [7]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: 5x06, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Whump, Episode: s05e06 Icarus, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Kinda, So I had to write something, Spoilers, Whump, ZEEB IF YOU SEE THIS BEFORE YOU WATCHED THE EPISODE DON'T TOUCH, hi i'm emotionally DAMAGED, this episode w r e a k e d me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21751612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spannah339/pseuds/Whump-with-wren
Summary: This is basically me coming to terms with the season 5 finale in the form of writing out Morse's thoughts.
Series: Bad Things Happen [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1485323
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Justice

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I'm alive! Haven't been writing that much since November, and my Nano work is Not Fit to see the light of day at the moment XD  
> Anyway, enjoy this, I had to write /something/ after that episode.

Morse was used to death. He was used to the sightless eyes, to the blood and the horror that hung around a scene like this. He was used to the slight nausea and quiet anger whenever he found himself standing in a crime scene. 

He had come across many kinds of death. Children, snuffed out before their time. Women, kidnapped and taken advantage of before being murdered. Men and women who had so much more to live for. Men and women Morse and his colleagues worked tirelessly to avenge. 

He had come across so much death, a part of him was becoming numb to it. They blurred together into one mess of blood and death and horror, haunting his dreams in the depths of night. He was becoming used to it - used to seeing scenes of death and horror, used to stepping into a room and feeling that familiar heart-sinking sadness. 

But this… this was different. It was different when you knew the person, lying cold and sightless. It was different when you had seen his potential. When you had worked alongside him, when you had seen him barely a week earlier. It was different, knowing who the motionless figure was, his hopes, his dreams, his ambitions. 

The scene was bad already as Morse began to make out just how many people had died in this building. He was numb to it, closing himself off like he always did, ignoring the blood splattered on walls and still faces. 

And then he saw a face he recognised and for a moment, the world seemed to freeze. 

For a moment, there was nothing but George Fancy’s still face, still warm body, the blood on his hands and the dread gradually replacing the normal numbness. Strange was talking, Thursday was talking, Fancy was still and cold and motionless. 

“He’s gone,” Thursday said, his voice surprisingly harsh. (For a moment, Thursday felt the world spin. Mickey Carter’s face flashed across his mind, and then the guilty relief that it wasn’t Morse lying in a pool of his own blood, and then the grief and sadness and anger all crashed down at once.)

Morse sank back, unable to process anything but George’s still face. Unable to think, unable to breathe for a moment of horror. 

_ “Why was he here? Why was he here he shouldn’t have been here he should have waited my fault I pushed him too hard if I had just been nicer if I hadn’t pushed him so much my fault my fault.”  _

The thoughts spun through his head and somehow he found himself outside, eyes still dry, grief and rage and guilt all merging together into a ball of emotions he wanted to drown in a sea of alcohol. 

_ “He was so young he was a kid, it should have been me, why wasn’t I nicer? I should have been kinder I should have encouraged him more I shouldn’t have pushed him so much I pushed him too much this is my fault.” _

His thoughts began to slow, leaving behind only a dull, aching hurt. The evening was a blur, his voice hard and chocked when he spoke. Slowly, he began to make sense of his thoughts, of his emotions. 

He busied himself, focusing on solving the crimes at the school, focused on teaching, on detective work, on what he knew how to do. He didn’t let himself think, didn’t let himself stop, only knew that he wasn’t going to let anyone else die. 

(“Shoot me if you have to,” he said, because if someone had to die, it was best it was him. If someone else had to follow George Fancy into death, why not Morse, who had let down Fancy, who had let down Trewlove, who had let down the whole station. If someone had to die, it was best if it was him.)

Part of him was glad there had been no survivors in that bar. If anyone had survived, Morse didn’t know how much longer he would remain alive. Part of him wanted to find George’s murder and make him  _ pay _ .

So when DeBryn - his voice softer than usual, the grief still fresh - informed him the murderer had escaped with the murder weapon, Morse felt all his grief, guilt and anger form into one burning ball of rage. 

He would not stop until George Fancy’s murderer had come to justice. He would not rest until everything was made right. And looking around the last remnants of Cowley Police Station, he knew he wasn’t alone. 

If only justice could bring back the dead, turn back the time, give the young Constable the future he deserved. 

Justice could help the future, not those who had already been lost. 


End file.
